


The Pieces Don't Fit Anymore

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the signing of the Treaty of Ghent, the War of 1812 came to its conclusion, but there are still things left unsaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pieces Don't Fit Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ June 7, 2009.

“So if you gentlemen have agreed on the terms, we can sign the treaty now,” Russia said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stood, away from the two warring countries, arms tucked behind him, near the window where the cold sun in December filtered cheerlessly through the window.  
  
Belgium stayed close by, observing but not making many more comments than necessary. She had nothing to do with those two, after all. The light winter wind drifted through her window, ruffling her blond hair and the ribbon tied in it.  
  
America inhaled sharply, looking between Russia, still smiling, Belgium, with a practiced neutral expression, and, with great hesitation, to England, who stood across the table from him, his lips thin and his face gaunt in the unforgiving December sunlight. It’d been a long series of negotiations, but it seemed they’d finally reached some kind of understanding—as close to an understanding as they could get. America reasoned, it couldn’t he helped if England was going to be a stubborn old fool about it. In reality, England had been very open to negotiations. More so than America had expected.  
  
 _Because I did so well fighting him again,_ America thought to himself and barely suppressed his smirk. A smirk would not be good when trying to be diplomatic. The diplomats with him were already on razor’s edge. Honestly, whose idea had it been to bring Adams _and_ Clay?  
  
“I’ll sign,” America announced after a pregnant silence between the four nations. He reached for the pen, dipped it in ink, and signed, trying to make his signature look as official (and _not_ British) as possible.  
  
England remained silent after America signed, and didn’t utter a word as he reached for the pen, taking it from America’s hand. America stifled the urge to recoil, to grip the pen tighter. Their eyes locked, for half a second, green on blue. America felt his jaw clench, but the moment didn’t last long. England looked away and down, gripping the pen firmly in his grasp, and leaning over to sign his name, elegant and curving across the page with practiced ease. America couldn’t take his eyes away from it.  
  
It was a relief, for it to end. They’d been negotiating for months. America could remember that first day in August—he’d been eager to stop the conflict as soon as possible. It would have ended there, if not for the territorial disputes.  
  
 _It’s over now, though,_ America thought.  
  
“Once ratified, this silly little conflict will be over,” Russia said, as if reading America’s thoughts and disputing it with his smile.  
  
“This treaty, when the same shall have been ratified on both sides, without alteration by either of the contracting parties, and the ratifications mutually exchanged, shall be binding on both parties, and the ratifications shall be exchanged at Washington, in the space of four months from this day,” England agreed, reading from the treaty he’d just signed. He looked up, his eyes ghosting over America’s for a moment before he looked off towards some unknown location, eyes distant. He said, “Or sooner if practicable.”  
  
Russia’s smile was still just as hollow, when America looked over at him. Opaque.  
  
“So in the end you return to the exact same position as you were before,” he commented jovially, ignoring the painfully guarded looks from both England and America. Belgium said nothing, but regarded the three men curiously. Russia continued, “So thousands of soldiers died needlessly.” He heaved a sigh that didn’t quite sound apologetic. “How senseless.”  
  
England looked as if he wanted to say something, but managed to restrain himself. He stood stiffly, shoulders square and his face tensed as if suppressing a grimace. Green eyes burned angrily on that December day. He set the pen down.  
  
“That will be all,” he said, coolly, calmly. It was the kind of voice America was all too familiar with, now. The warning. The cold, steady, almost dead voice of a man prepared to fight.  
  
Russia shrugged, nonchalant, and tilted his head. “Are we done? There are places that we all need to be, I’m sure.”  
  
America stared at Russia impassively. It would take him quite a while to return home, and aside from his fellow diplomats, he was away from his people on Christmas Eve. At least Belgium was in her home, and England was near his home. Russia was… Russia and didn’t celebrate on this day.  
  
The sun was sinking low towards the horizon. Clouds in the distance threatened rain—or snow, given the temperature.  
  
“We’re done,” America said at the same time England said, “You can go.”  
  
They both looked at one another, veiling their shock in what either one both hoped was dignified indifference. America was the first to look away, frowning. Russia shrugged again, and moved to leave the room, eager to leave the room and return to his business as usual. Belgium gave one last look to each nation.  
  
“You’re welcome to stay in my house, too, England,” Belgium reminded. She’d extended the invitation to America earlier that week, and America had accepted.  
  
England glanced at America and then shook his head. “I’ve made accommodations elsewhere.”  
  
“Suit yourself,” Belgium said cheerfully, shrugging, and slamming the window shut. Dusting her hands and patting them over the dress she wore, she turned on her heel and left the room. Pausing at the doorway, she glanced over at America. “I still have some business to take care of, but I trust you know the way to my house.”  
  
America nodded and watched Belgium leave.  
  
It was in that moment that he realized that there was only a table separating himself from England. He stood there, stiffly, conspicuous of every motion that the other nation made, while trying to appear absolutely transfixed on his own reflection staring back at him from the mirror across the room.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw England standing, adjusting the buttons on his jacket, and pointedly looking anywhere but at America. The younger nation squashed the thought bubbling up against the back of his throat, the whisper of _I want him to look at me._  
  
He swallowed.  
  
“You—” America began.  
  
“It’s—” England said at the same time.  
  
They both stopped. America finally moved his attention away from the mirror and towards England. The sun was sinking lower to the horizon, and America realized dimly Belgium had left no candles burning.  
  
“Um…” America said, intelligently.  
  
“Well, out with it,” England prompted with a distracted wave of his hand. It was in this way that England made him feel like he was a petulant little child again. England was looking somewhere over America’s left shoulder, not at him. “You had something to say, so say it.”  
  
“Right…” America said, trailing off and feeling insignificantly small in the face of England’s expression. He felt like wringing his hands together but reminded himself that he wasn’t a little child anymore, wasn’t England’s colony anymore—no, now they were _equals_ , he thought with a bubbling sort of pride, even if deep down he knew that England would disagree—and that meant he had to stand up tall, have integrity and pride, not grovel like a lost child.  
  
England was staring at him.  
  
“Uh,” he said again.  
  
England rolled his eyes and turned away. “This is ridiculous.”  
  
America felt anger surge up, at himself for faltering over the words he’d tried to say but were lodged in his throat, but mostly anger at England’s blatant disregard. He glared, feeling his face flame up in shame and embarrassment.  
  
“Maybe you’re the ridiculous one,” America snapped back.  
  
England stiffened and slowly turned back to regard America with cold eyes.  
  
America swallowed, but his bravado proved stronger than his discretion. “Yeah, you. Coming in here, acting all high and mighty when you were the one who wanted face-to-face negotiations only!”  
  
England’s eyes narrowed. “That’s simply because I cannot trust Russia to handle these things as a middleman.” Perhaps it was the darkening room playing tricks on him, but it seemed now that England’s face was red. America felt a surge of pride, of resentment, and of something he didn’t want to acknowledge just yet. England stood bone-straight, and despite the red cheeks, betrayed nothing on his face. “Don’t misinterpret that. The sooner you’re out of my sight… the better.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” America asked, and wasn’t sure if he believed those words.  
  
England snorted. “I have more important things to deal with right now. It’s bad enough that I have France acting like a first rate…” he paused, as if debating whether he wanted to swear in front of America, then continued, “ass, I don’t need to deal with you and your little fit.”  
  
“Fit?” America nearly shouted. He clenched his fists. “You think this was all because I was having some kind of _fit_?”  
  
He could have punched England. He was quickly on his way to starting a war all over again.  
  
England rubbed his temples in a most sacrificing manner, sighing as if he were some great martyr faced with another one of God’s dilemmas. He looked anywhere but at England, and it was with a certain sardonic pride that America noted that England was still flushed.  
  
“You’re just a sorry loser,” America decided.  
  
England regarded him for a moment. “Surely you don’t think that you won?”  
  
“Of course I did,” America said, puffing out his chest and forgetting his anger for half a second in favor of grinning at England. “Because my superior might and strength of will!”  
  
England stared at him, flabbergasted and in shock, green eyes widened. He seemed to regain control of himself after a moment, and, much to America’s chagrin, said in a voice filled with awe, “Ridiculous _and_ delusional?”  
  
“I am not delusional!” America protested, and almost didn’t catch the whine in his voice or the pout on his lips, but was able to squash both incriminatingly childish actions before England could take notice of their existence.  
  
“America, on paper it was as if this war never happened at all,” England marveled and gestured to where the treaty once sat on the table, where they had signed their names and pressed their seals. “Aside from the thousands of lives that were lost, that is. This war was clearly a draw.”  
  
“Ha, the words of a sore loser,” America declared triumphantly, smirking.  
  
England’s eyes narrowed. “America, I can’t say that there are times when I don’t admire your spunk, but you are being foolish here.”  
  
America rolled his eyes heavenward, shrugging his shoulders in a rather condescending manner. “It is what it is, England.”  
  
England sighed.  
  
“You’re still very much a child.”  
  
America couldn’t shrug back the cringe at those words and he swiveled his head to glare heartily at England, who met his gaze evenly, lips thinned and face half hidden in shadow as the sun finally disappeared on the horizon, west. Towards England’s home. Towards America’s home.  
  
“I’m not a child anymore, England,” America said and was proud of himself to keep the waver from his voice, the waver that was currently fighting against his throat, trying to shake his advantage over England, over his own voice.  
  
England looked at him before turning away again, moving towards the door.  
  
America whipped out one hand and grasped England’s shoulder and it was in that moment that America realized, realized— _I want to touch him._  
  
England jerked his shoulder from America’s grasp, but America was insistent— _don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t go away, don’t_ —and seized both shoulders, turning England around and pushing him against the wall. England stared at him for a long moment, petrified in shock and disbelief. And then his face steadily darkened and he lifted his hands and shoved.  
  
America stumbled backwards—he’d forgotten who England was. But it was to be expected. He was the British Empire. He brought countries to their knees, he roamed and ruled the seas. And America was the one to stand up against him.  
  
 _I’m not a child anymore,_ America thought again and wondered, not for the last time, why he wanted England to acknowledge this, to say this. He saw the fire in England’s eyes—fire from cannon fire, fire from a burning White House, fire from hundreds of years that America could never fathom. _I’m not_ your _child anymore, England._  
  
England stared at him, dead in the eyes, fire meeting America’s ocean blue. “Damn upstart.”  
  
He was moving towards the door again. America reached out for a third time but England was ready for him, grasping his wrist and twisting his arm behind his back. America let out a cry and twisted, jamming his shoulder into England’s chest and sending the older nation reeling backwards, resting against the wall once again.  
  
“Damn it, England. What do you want from me?”  
  
“It’d be much easier if you would just—” England began, then abruptly cut himself off. He passed one hand through his hair with a deep, heavy sigh.  
  
“If I’d what?” America asked, agitated at the lack of confirmation of… of something.  
  
“Let’s just stop,” he said, sounding very tired, far more tired than he had a moment before. “This is nonsense. We just resolved a war, there’s no sense starting a new one.”  
  
“Oh…”  
  
They stood in awkward silence, one painfully rigid and the other slumped over. England steadied himself against the wall before straightening, dusting his shoulders free of nonexistent debris, and straightened his jacket sleeves with a tailored eye.  
  
“I’m not a child anymore.”  
  
America couldn’t let it die.  
  
England sighed long and hard. He pressed a hand to his forehead, pushing dirty blond fringe away from his forehead and regarding America in what could have almost been a fond expression but it was impossible to tell in the grey room, the sun almost completely gone and clouds looming in the distance.  
  
“No,” England agreed after a long moment. He shook his head. “No, you’re right. At least…” He trailed off, looking somewhere far off into the distance, the past of the future. “You’ve grown.”  
  
America had to look down this time, and felt the blush on his cheeks and hated that it was there and why it was there. Why was it there? America knew the answer and didn’t want to know it.  
  
“You’ll certainly only get stronger,” England said, and his voice was almost wistful, but cautious. Always, always cautious.  
  
America puffed up, proudly, his blue eyes glinting. “You can be sure of that, England.”  
  
“Hm,” England said, and it didn’t sound like a good noise. He dug around in his pocket, pulling out gloves and slipping them on, one finger at a time. He fiddled, and America realized that England’s hands were shaking. America watched the meticulous way in which England pulled on the gloves, watched how England never once raised his gaze from his hands.  
  
“England…”  
  
“What?” Curt.  
  
America was walking towards him. England watched him and said nothing as America stopped before him, lifted a hand. It hung in the air, between them, reaching, before America seemed to think better of it and placed it precariously on the wall behind England. America leaned forward—since when had he been so much taller than England—looked down at England, who looked back up at him.  
  
England dug around in his pocket, looking away, and pulled out a matchbook. The room was almost entirely shrouded in darkness now, the sun long gone and clouds in the sky. He ducked away, under America’s arm, and walked soundlessly towards the table where half-burn candles sat haphazardly in tarnish silver holders.  
  
America watched as England struck a match and a spark of flame lighted the corner of the room. A warm orange glow outlined England as America watched his back, watched his attentive reflection in the mirror above the candles. America stood, rooted to the spot, as England’s match passed over every wick, every candle, filling the room with a distant glow.  
  
When he turned back to America, his face was cast in long shadows. The fire flickered, and the shadows in the room shifted and danced around them. America shivered, and told himself it was because it was December and he was in Belgium.  
  
“I…” England began and then seemed to think better of it, trailing off with a frown and a shake of his head.  
  
“You’re shaking.”  
  
“So are you.”  
  
They watched one another, watched as both of them tried to stop the shaking. America stuffed his hands into his pockets. England folded his elegantly together, thought better of it, then crossed his arms over his chest.  
  
America bit his lower lip.  
  
“Yes, well,” England said, backpedaling in his typical fashion. He cleared his throat. “Well, the treaty’s all dealt with. Up to our governments from now on, hm? Be sure to… to… uphold the articles pertaining to you.”  
  
America frowned.  
  
“England…”  
  
“Diplomacy is key. Things are the way they were before,” England continued, sounding far more confident now that he was back on political grounds and not in the strange, uncharted territories of emotionally charged interactions. “Trade partners and all that.”  
  
“Right… trade partners…”  
  
England fiddled with his matchbook before stuffing it into his pocket and fiddling with the fingers of his black gloves. “Good, then.”  
  
America murmured something, scuffled his feet against the wood, then stopped immediately when he realized that was too childish of a thing to do. His heart was beating too quickly. He was still shaking.  
  
“I trust after this treaty is ratified we won’t be facing any more similar issues,” England was saying, continuing on in his diplomatic fashion. “It’d be troublesome for our nations otherwise. I’ve nearly drained my entire funds fighting these things against you,” England paused, perhaps realizing too late he was revealing too much, but continued on in a similar vein, “No, this will be better economically and politically.”  
  
“Right…” America muttered. “Politically.”  
  
England eyed him. The flames of the candle behind him flickered dim light over America’s features. The cool darkness from outside bathed one side of America’s face in shadow.  
  
“What’s the matter now?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You have that tone you get,” England muttered, and realized just what he was saying. “You’re pouting.”  
  
“I’m not,” America snapped, too quickly. His face was red.  
  
England’s frown depended, a deep line across his face.  
  
“Only… politically?” America finally ventured.  
  
“What do you mean _only_?”  
  
America bit his lip, then realized that would make him look too vulnerable. He straightened his shoulders, frowning. He fiddled with a button on his coat, and realized that, too, made him look nervous. (He wasn’t nervous, he wasn’t nervous, he wasn’t nervous…)  
  
“Does it always have to be all about politics?” America said, voice coming out softer, more insecure, then America would have liked.  
  
There was a long, long silence.  
  
“We’re nations,” England said at last. “It’s all politics.”  
  
America snorted, sardonic. “Are we just nations?”  
  
England said nothing.  
  
So America continued: “Are we really just nations— Whenever I—” He cut himself off abruptly before he revealed something he wasn’t quite ready to reveal. In his pockets, his hands clenched and began to sweat. He hoped that the half-darkness, the flickering, inconsistent light of candles would keep his expressions hidden. “England, are you—?”  
  
“… Am I what?” England asked, sighed, almost. He sounded far too old. The light in the room was unforgiving on his features, making him look older than America ever realized.  
  
America shivered. Closed his eyes for one moment, reopened them. Blinked.  
  
“Is anything you’ve ever done, anything you’ve ever felt been because it’s what your country, what your people were thinking?” America asked at last.  
  
England, once again, said nothing.  
  
America watched him, expectant. He didn’t dare hope for anything, didn’t dare think about what England would say.  
  
If anything.  
  
He still hadn’t said anything.  
  
America’s hands were still sweaty. His clothing felt too tight. He hated the candlelight, hated the cold winter night outside—it was starting to snow, large flakes plastering against the window and melting away—hated everything.  
  
England seemed to get a hold of the words he was supposed to say. “I am England. That’s…” his words faded, and something flickered in his eyes. He swallowed. He straightened. “We’re nations, America. There’s no room for any personal feelings.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” America snapped back, biting back his scowl—this wasn’t supposed to disappoint him, he was expecting this answer, wasn’t he? “So when… back when I was,” his voice lowered, as if he didn’t want to say it, “British America… all of that was politics?”  
  
England slanted a hard, warning look at him. “There’s no sense in talking about _that_.”  
  
“Maybe I want to talk about it!” America shouted—but really, did he?—and took a step towards England.  
  
England met his gaze, distant. One of the candles burnt out, reaching the end of its wick. A long, blue curl of smoke drifted through the air, arching and curving across the space separating the two nations, before dissipating into distant wisps and fading from view.  
  
The window was frosted over, and outside the snow was piling up. Snow fell over all of Belgium.  
  
“Can’t you just forget your politics for one moment?” America nearly shouted, his voice raising in pitch, and wondered where this sudden burst of emotion had come from, where it was harboring before. “England just—just stop it.”  
  
England stared at him.  
  
“Can’t we act like—like—why does it all have to be politics, all have to be about two nations and—God, we’re—”  
  
He finally managed to cut himself off. He sucked in a shaky breath and hated himself for feeling unsure, feeling uncertain.  
  
“You were my brother.” He inhaled. Exhaled. “Or was that just politics, too?”  
  
England stared at him for a long moment, hopeless green eyes almost glowing in the near darkness. Then he looked away, eyebrows furrowing and fists clenching.  
  
“What do you expect me to say?”  
  
“Say what you want to say, not what you think you need to say,” America muttered, growing angry again.  
  
“I’ve already _acknowledged_ that you’re a nation. What more do you want from me, America? Is it not enough that you can gloat all you want over this?” England was still looking away, angry, his face red. “Honestly, a great nation such as myself being beaten by a bunch of farmers with pitchforks.”  
  
America realized they weren’t talking about 1812—he hadn’t had farmers with pitchforks this time, thank you very much. It was a rare day when England actually spoke about the Revolution. It seemed England liked to live in a constant state of denial.  
  
“Is that all you can think about? Your own pride?”  
  
“You’re one to talk,” England snapped. He shook his head. “You’re growing too arrogant, America.”  
  
“I wasn’t talking about pride before!”  
  
“Well, that’s what you meant, wasn’t it? You humiliated me on a global scale, America. And now you’ve gone and put ideas in India’s and Ireland’s and whoever else’s head, and I will not stand for my empire to fall. It will not fall, and it certainly will not fall because of _you._ ”  
  
America was shaking again. He glared at England. England backed up one step, away from America, and steadied his hand on the table holding the candles. His movement caused the flames to flicker and the shadows danced across the walls. America took a step towards him, hands clenched.  
  
“It wasn’t about humiliating you or making you fall or anything like—” America cut himself off before he said something he’d regret, before he started another war.  
  
England wasn’t looking at him, slanting his eyes away to glare at anything that wasn’t America.  
  
“I don’t care about anything like that,” America snapped, and knew it was true. He bit back the— _I care about you_ —that was on the tip of his tongue. “I don’t _care_!”  
  
“Well, I care!” England protested and looked down at the candles. His face in profile, America could see the bags under his eyes, the downturn of his lips. His hands were gripping the edge of the table tightly, knuckles turning white. “You talk about how we were brothers? The only brothers I’ve ever known have all fought against me, have all resisted me. Scotland, Wales, Ireland, and then _you_.”  
  
“You gave me no choice!” America shouted back. “You weren’t giving me the freedom that every man is born with, it’s self evident—”  
  
“—Don’t you dare twist my own philosophy at me, you—”  
  
“It’s not English, it’s American!” America was shouting now, stumbling forward a few steps so that he was cornering England. England watched him warily, face contorted in barely suppressed rage. America knew how much England hated to be cornered. “I’m _America._ I’m not yours anymore. I never was yours. I didn’t fight you for some kind of pride or to make you look bad. I fought for myself—and I _earned_ my independence.”  
  
“I am well aware of _that_ ,” England hissed, looking away. America pointedly ignored the pained look that curled across his eyes for half a second.  
  
“So then—”  
  
“As far as I’m concerned,” England muttered, returning to America’s earlier question, “You stopped being my brother the moment you pointed your gun at me.”  
  
Their eyes locked, glaring.  
  
They stood in silence.  
  
A second candle flickered to its death.  
  
“But before then,” America muttered, “Before, when I was your brother. Was everything you did merely because it was… for politics?”  
  
England stared at him.  
  
“You were part of my empire.”  
  
America stared back. His expression darkened.  
  
“Damn it,” he whispered, taking another step towards England and pushing his arms out, shoving against him. He trapped him between his arms, leaning over him and glaring. “Damn it!”  
  
England shoved against his chest, but his touch was light and America could feel those hands against his chest, even while it was trying to push him away. England looked anywhere but at him.  
  
“Is it really all politics for you?”  
  
England said nothing. America twisted his head, trying to capture his attention, capture his eyes. He invaded his personal space, leaning forward, not moving or relenting against England’s half-hearted shoves.  
  
“… Yes,” he said at last, and somehow it sounded like he was lying. “Isn’t it that way for you, too?”  
  
“How—”  
  
“These two wars,” England muttered, “You did them for whatever delusional political thoughts have been boiling in that empty head of yours. Truly, if you had any sense it would—”  
  
“Don’t you dare stand there and tell me my revolution was based on delusions,” America snapped.  
  
“I was only doing what was best for you.”  
  
“Best for me? And you say that I’m the delusional one?” America was shaking again, and lifted his hands away from either side of England in order to shove him into the table. The candles rattled, threatening to tip over, before readjusting themselves accordingly. The light burned in America’s eyes.  
  
“I take care of what’s mine,” England said, calm.  
  
“I was never yours!” America shouted.  
  
England was silent for a long moment, staring at him. “I take care of what’s mine,” England continued, repeated, grated on America’s nerves, “I do what’s best for them, and if they start acting up, then I punish them. What I did to you was not any different from how I’d treat any rebellious colony. You were _British_ America… you were mine.”  
  
“I’m not yours anymore,” America insisted, reminded.  
  
“No,” England said, and he looked distant again. “No, you’re not.”  
  
“You were wrong, England. And maybe you were and are too stubborn to realize that, but I was justified! I did what I had to do, and you wouldn’t listen to me! But even so—even so—”  
  
“What?” England asked, genuinely curious, when America cut himself off.  
  
“My people, my country… they wanted to be free from your country. You were being unjust, you were being unfair—don’t you dare say you weren’t, shut up,” he snapped when England looked as if he were about to protest, “But even if my people shape me, there’s still a part of me that’s me, isn’t there? Isn’t there a part of you that’s you?”  
  
“America…”  
  
“You were my brother. Even though you were doing all these things, even though you were making me want to get away from you, I didn’t want to fight you! Why didn’t you just _listen_? Why are you always so god damn stubborn and—”  
  
“I protect what’s mine, even if I need to protect him from himself.”  
  
“You could have just—all I wanted was—”  
  
Abruptly, he pushed away from England, turned his back, and stormed to the window, looking out the frost-covered glass towards a snow-covered Belgium. There was no hint of sunlight anymore.  
  
“There’s no sense talking about this.”  
  
“You just don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered darkly.  
  
“There’s no sense in reliving such things,” England said, and in the tone of voice that America recognized from years ago as embarrassment. He heard shuffling and footsteps. He didn’t look away from the window but felt England come closer, and stop a respectable distance away. Safe.  
  
“You just hate to admit you lost.”  
  
He heard more footsteps, could almost feel England behind him. More shuffling, more fidgeting. He couldn’t turn around and look at him. He was too angry, too hurt, too… too whatever he was.  
  
He ignored his reddening face.  
  
America scrambled, attempting to reclaim a ground that was far more comfortable.  
  
“And I absolutely won this war, too.”  
  
Politics. Politics were safe, not like the… personal feelings. America realized, dimly and too late, why England was so insistent on remaining political only. It was much easier that way, somehow. But only a little.  
  
“It was a draw,” England said, and America heard him back up. He sounded resigned, tired.  
  
“England, I…”  
  
There was a long, long silence.  
  
“I don’t want to fight you anymore.”  
  
America couldn’t tell who’d said it, who’d spoken the words, because as soon as they were uttered there was something that shifted in his chest, something that said _yes, this is what I’ve wanted to say._  
  
He turned around, looking over his shoulder as he did so, and faced England head on. England looked back at him, eyebrows slanted and eyes no longer looking quite so distant. America rubbed the back of his head.  
  
There was a long silence.  
  
“I don’t want to fight you anymore, either.”  
  
Something in the room shifted. Perhaps it seemed to get brighter, warmer, almost. Out of the candles, only three were left burning. The others were snuffed out, stubs of wax against a wooden table. America glanced over England’s shoulder, saw his reflection in the mirror, and wasn’t quite sure how he could go about describing that expression. He wasn’t used to seeing it.  
  
“Do you not want to fight me because you keep draining all your money doing it?” America asked. Politics.  
  
England heaved a deep sigh, shoulders sagging. He passed a hand through his hair and laughed, mirthlessly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”  
  
That didn’t quite answer his question.  
  
America insisted.  
  
England let out a small groan, straightened himself, and strode rather confidently to the candles. He looked up, caught America’s eyes in the reflection in the mirror, and frowned.  
  
“Don’t misunderstand,” he said after a pregnant pause, “I’m certainly doing this for my own benefit. Don’t think that—”  
  
But America was grinning at him and somehow it was infectious because England was giving him that strange, awkward smile of his, wobbly and lopsided and crinkling the corners of his eyes in what could only be described as a cautiously friendly expression. It made him look infinitely younger, somehow.  
  
“Right,” America said instead of what he wanted to say. He swallowed the words lodged in his throat.  
  
“It’s probably best that we go. It’s getting dark, after all. And it’d be rude of you to keep Belgium waiting,” England said, voice proper again now that he was back on neutral territory.  
  
“Oh, yeah… right…” America scratched the back of his neck, feeling a familiar thread of awkwardness wrapping thickly around his neck.  
  
“Shall we, then?” England asked, half turning to glance at America over his shoulder.  
  
“Yeah,” America agreed.  
  
England leaned over, lips puckering as he blew out the last of the candles, curtly and precise. The flames danced before snuffing out and leaving the curls of smoke in their wake. America watched as he blew each one out one by one, watched as the smoke swept over and around England’s face, twisting around him before rising up and disappearing somewhere between the mirror and the ceiling.  
  
England straightened and looked over at America in the darkness. Then he moved steadily towards the door, opening it without looking behind him. America followed him.  
  
They walked in silence as they left the building, walking out onto the street in the cold Belgium winter. England tilted his head upwards, regarding the falling snow with a critical eye.  
  
“A white Christmas, then,” England mused to himself.  
  
America looked up but couldn’t see what was so interesting about the snow, so he turned instead to watch England watching the snow. The lampposts lining the street glowed like beacons in the dark.  
  
England must have felt America’s gaze, because he glanced up at him and their eyes locked. America frowned when England frowned.  
  
“Did you comb your hair before coming here?” England asked.  
  
“Huh? Uh… yeah…” America answered, slightly taken aback by such a random question.  
  
“Hm,” England said, and this time his ‘hm’ had a much more approving ring to it. He nodded once, readjusted his gloves and buttoned one last button on his coat, to banish away the chill.  
  
Then, he raised his hand and America stared in shock as he passed a hand over America’s head, patting down stray hairs. “Nantucket’s sticking up, as always.”  
  
“I’m not a child, so don’t treat me like one,” America reminded, and hated how he felt his face heat up when England touched him—he told himself it was just the cold, he was just cold, that was all. His nose itched, and it was red. It was December, that was why. That was the only reason why.  
  
England slanted his eyes away from America’s hair and settled on the spot between his eyes—because eye contact at this proximity was too intimate—and frowned. His hand lingered before he pulled it away.  
  
“Right.” He crossed his arms, defensive. “Of course.”  
  
“Yeah…” America muttered, and was thankful he’d managed to suppress the almost stutter in his voice. He was just stuttering because he was shivering. And he was only shivering because it was cold.  
  
That was all.  
  
“No sense standing out in the cold,” England murmured. He gestured to their left. “My inn is this way.”  
  
“Belgium’s house is that way,” America said, pointing to the right. He told himself he was just imagining that he sounded disappointed.  
  
“Ah,” England said, and America told himself he was definitely imagining England’s disappointment. “I suppose this is goodbye for now, then.”  
  
“Seems that way.”  
  
“Well, goodbye, then.”  
  
England held out his hand. America took a step forward, wanting to grasp that hand and tug him, tug England into his arms and hug him until there was nothing left to say. There was so much left to say, so much trapped in America’s throat and America suspected in England’s as well. He grasped that hand and looked down at England, and England was looking back up at him, a question in his eyes.  
  
America shook his hand, resisting the urge to reach out and wrap his arms around him. He smiled a lopsided, awkward smile, reminiscent of England’s own.  
  
England gave him a shaky one back.  
  
“See you later, England,” America said, stuffing his hands into his pockets after dropping England’s hand. He could still feel the warmth from England’s own hand still on his own. He didn’t have gloves, and he wasn’t sure if he was angry he’d forgotten his gloves or not.  
  
“Oh, and America?” England said, as if the thought had just occurred to him.  
  
“Yeah, what?” America asked, still smiling and feeling strangely warm despite the cold.  
  
England turned away so his face was hidden as he started to walk away. “Happy Christmas.”  
  
America blinked in surprise, watched as England started to walk away. He laughed, one little chuckle, before shouting after him. “Yeah, you too. Don’t fall over on your way home, old man.”  
  
“Ungrateful brat,” he heard the other nation mutter as he turned the corner, but the words did not sound accusing and, truly, almost sounded affectionate. As affectionate as England got, at least.  
  
America turned away and walked in the opposite direction.

**Author's Note:**

> \- In this fic, England is called England for the sake of convenience, but during this time he was, technically, still the British Empire, or the United Kingdom, or anything along those lines. I just think England sounds nicer, har har my shallow reasons let me show you them.
> 
> \- derp, this is a silly footnote but I felt like I should say it. England uses ‘ass’ instead of ‘arse’ because he’s referring to the donkey not the butt. Ass was and is a common, everyday word/insult used in Ireland since around the 1500s (and during this time, Ireland is part of the British Empire and therefore part of England? IDK Hetalia, you confuse me.) Though really, the dialogue between the nations here is probably still littered with words that weren’t used in those definitions and phrasings until a later time, but I really cannot be arsed to look up every word in the OED and figure out when they were first being used.
> 
> \- Speaking of anachronisms! The kind of match that England uses, complete with matchbook, wasn’t invented until around 1860! But I couldn’t find what they did to light candles before then (watch the answer be totally obvious) so just pretend that England’s awesome and has a time machine or something. Haha… Dr. Who.
> 
> \- After the war, England promised it would refuse to acknowledge America as an independent nation, and would rather pretend it didn’t exist. Near the end of the 18th century, however, England finally acknowledged the country’s nationhood, though as far as most of England was concerned, nothing worth knowing happened in 1776. It was a part of the past England wasn’t too keen on revisiting.
> 
> \- Locke was an English philosopher who greatly influenced the American Declaration of Independence and America’s constitution. (Much to England’s chagrin, I’m sure.)
> 
> \- From 1812 to 1814, Russia was facing the threat of Napoleonic France's invasion on Russian soil. Russia had no idea how much longer France would last, and was unsure of its ability to hold out. As a result, Russia did not want England distracted, fighting a far-off war against the US. Instead, it wanted England focused on helping it fight France. Hence why Russia offered to mediate negotiations between the US and England. By the time the two met, however, Russia had already defeated France.
> 
> \- Almost immediately after declaring war on England, American president James Madison began searching for a diplomatic resolution to the conflict. When Russia offered to mediate, Madison sent his negotiators to St. Petersburg, but the English were adamantly opposed to anything except face-to-face negotiations. Both sides eventually agreed to meet in the Belgian town of Ghent in August of 1814.
> 
> \- John Quincy Adams and Henry Clay hated one another, and rarely got along, politically or personally. So of course they’d have to be diplomats together.
> 
> \- The treaty was signed on December 24, but it wouldn’t be ratified for another few months by both governments of the United States and the United Kingdom.
> 
> \- England at the Ghent peace talks was surprisingly willing to negotiate, which wasn’t expected. The reason was that it had far bigger fish to fry then dealing with a petulant America. It was having trouble negotiating a balance of power in Europe at the Congress of Vienna, and Napoleon suddenly escaped his exile on Elba. Because this threatened a resurgent militarist France, England wanted to withdraw its troops from America and focus on Europe.
> 
> \- And in an early show of American cockiness, America proudly believed that its military valor and ability changed the course of the Ghent negotiations when truly it was the events going on in Europe that shaped the bulk of England’s diplomatic decisions.
> 
> \- In another show of American cockiness, America believed that it was the victor of the War of 1812 (it was actually a draw.) When in reality America started the war in hopes of conquering Canada, the United States barely managed to escape without too much serious damage. The young country viewed the war as a victory when it was really more logically a draw, and one in which England had fought with one hand tied behind its back by France.
> 
> \- Yet, in England, many British citizens were very impressed by “American scrappiness.” Not even France and his Napoleon’s Grand Navy had been able to stand up to the British Navy, but the United States had once again stood toe to toe with England and survived. British citizens, in short, admired America’s balls.
> 
> \- England and the United States of America have not fought against one another since.


End file.
